The Crown of the Bandit King

by Matti Lena Harris

  We rested for a moment on a bench. Well, I rested. Sweet Pea and Deeter waited for me patiently while I groaned. My ankle was throbbing. So was my back. And my head—definitely I’d knocked something loose in my brain when I’d landed on that swinging cage. Now wherever I looked, I could see flashes and dark swirly things.

  Like over by the fake tattoo tent. There I saw the biggest dark shape of them all. It wasn’t swirling, though. It stepped out of the shadows, so I could see it better.

  And then, it smiled.

  “Guys,” I said, “we need to go. Now!”

  Deeter and Sweet Pea both turned and saw the clown, too.

  “Oh, man!” Deeter shouted. “The psycho clown’s back!”

  That clown must have changed out of his long floppy shoes because now he was moving quick. In fact, he was gaining on us as we ran. And it was because of me. I was the one slowing us down. I just couldn’t limp any faster.

  “Hey, Rookie, you still got my ring?” Deeter asked. “Use it. Put it on! Disappear!”

  “Deeter’s right,” Sweet Pea said. “Put on the ring! That way you can escape!”

  “But what about you guys?” I asked.

  “Man, don’t worry about us!” Deeter said.

  The ring was still in my pocket, and sure, if I slipped it on I could disappear. Maybe the clown wouldn’t get me, and he wouldn’t get The Book of All Words if that was what he wanted. Instead, he’d get Deeter and Sweet Pea.

  No. I’d never let that happen. Never.

  But we had other problems besides the clown. Around us, the tents and booths were starting to look weird. Sort of wavery. Shimmery, like they might appear if they were underwater. The colors weren’t as bright, and the lights were dimming. When I glanced at any of the tents or booths sideways, they seemed transparent, as if they were fading.

  Closing time.

  And after that, the Management wasn’t responsible for anything or anybody left in the park and lost subsequently thereof. Wasn’t that what the Carnie had said?

  I sure hoped so.

  “I have an idea,” I said. “Deeter, what do you have in your backpack? Anything besides peanut butter granola bars?”

  “Nope! Everything else is in Sweet Pea’s pack.”

  “Swap backpacks with me!”

  “What! Man, are you hungry now?”

  “Just do it!”

  We rounded a corner where the clown couldn’t quite see us, and then we switched backpacks. The exit was in sight, the path lined with last-minute souvenir tents and an overhead sign with big, colorful letters.

  Come back real soon!

  “When you get to the exit,” I said, “keep going! Take The Book of All Words and go to the Viking ship! Don’t wait for me! If you have to, set sail without me!”

  “What! We can’t!” Sweet Pea said.

  “You have to save the book! Don’t worry about me! I’ll be fine!”

  “But—”

  “Trust me!”

  The carnival lights were flickering now, and all the carnival sounds—the noises of the rides, the calliope music—all of it was softening, growing more distant.

  “Go!” I said. “Now! You have to!”

  Sweet Pea and Deeter raced on ahead of me, and when they reached the exit, they continued running down the path that led to the beach where we’d left the Viking ship.

  So far, so good.

  I limped the rest of the way to the exit, but I didn’t make a dash for the beach like the others. I’d have never made it anyway. Instead, I stopped outside the boundary of the carnival, my feet inches from the gate, and I turned. I dropped Deeter’s backpack onto the ground beside me. Then I waited for the clown to arrive.

  It was time to stop running.

  Chapter 19

  Future Uncertain—Ask Again Later

  Mister Creepy Clown wasn’t so creepy anymore. The black and white makeup on his face was smeared with sweat, and his black wig drooped around his ears. Near the last souvenir tent he halted, his gaze shifting to the backpack on the ground beside me.

  “You want this?” I nudged the backpack with my sneaker.

  Oh, yeah. Definitely, he wanted it. He didn’t have to answer me—the look in his dark eyes was enough.

  “Well, it’s your lucky day,” I said. “I’ve decided to give it to you.”

  The souvenir tent was growing blurry around the edges as it faded. Good thing I wasn’t looking to buy a t-shirt. Only a minute or so was left before the carnival closed, but the clown didn’t seem to care.

  He was too busy staring at my backpack.

  “We were stupid,” I said. “I mean, what were we thinking? That we honestly could beat someone like you?”

  The clown stepped closer. I had to keep talking. Just a little longer.

  “Even if it means you get the Bronze Crown,” I said, “why should we care?”

  That worked better than I thought.

  The clown froze. By now, he was close enough that I could see the smile on his face was a trick of his makeup. When I’d mentioned the crown, he’d stopped smiling.

  “I know about the crown,” I said. “How The Book of All Words is the only way to find it. And I know what the Bronze Crown does.”

  The clown took another step forward, but he seemed hesitant. And he was starting to waver around the edges. Just like the rest of the fading carnival. I picked up the backpack, so he wouldn’t notice.

  “But hey, that’s not our business, right?” I shrugged. “We’re just Finders. You win. I’ll give you this backpack and everything in it. I only want to know one thing. I want to know who you are. After all, where’s the fame and glory if no one even knows your name?”

  Finally, Mister Creepy Clown spoke. His words were soft, more the echo of a voice than a voice itself.

  “I could ask you the same question. One of the Ragman’s poor, pathetic, nameless Finders. You’ve got no memories. No identity. But I know a lot about you. Oh, yes. I’ve been doing a little, shall we say, research.”

  Was he lying? Was this a trick? Or was it the truth?

  “What could you possibly know about me?” I asked.

  “Oh, everything. I know about your family. I know where you live. I know about your school and your hobbies. I know why you always wear black. I know your favorite thing for breakfast in the morning—cold macaroni and cheese. Just think what you could learn about yourself if you and I spent some time together.”

  A strong, sharp gust of wind blew in my face, whisking the carnival smells away—the buttered popcorn, the taco spice, the cotton candy sweetness. An odor of dead fish rose up from the beach, instead, and I shivered in the wind’s ocean chill.

  “There’s nothing you could say that would make me want to spend time with you,” I said.

  “Really? That’s a pity. I may need a Finder’s help, and you impress me. You’re determined, resourceful, not to mention particularly gifted with the Finder’s instinct. Yes, you and I could go far. And just think. Think! Oh, what we could accomplish if we had the Bronze Crown.”

  He leaned forward, and his every word had the power of a whisper in my ear. I couldn’t move or blink. All I could do was listen.

  “With the Bronze Crown, you could force the Ragman to return your memories,” he said. “The memories of your friends, too. You could all go home again, back to your old lives. You could prove to your friends that you’re not useless and worthless. Recognized as a hero at last!”

  I could see it in my mind, how it could work out. I could see the Ragman in his study, giving us back our memories. Deeter would slap a high-five with me, and Sweet Pea would give me a hug, maybe even a kiss. I could see myself walking up to my own home and opening the door. I could see my parents there, waiting for me. I could see it all.

  But crowns are only big enough to fit one head, not two.

  “I don’t believe you,” I said. “You’re lying.”

  The clown sneered, but then he finally noticed how blurry everything had b
ecome, how faded everything was.

  How faded he was.

  He let out a sound that was a cross between a snarl and a cry, and he leaped at me, his arms flailing to snatch the backpack. Or me. I wasn’t sure which. So I did the only thing I could think of.

  I threw Deeter’s backpack right in the clown’s face.

  The clown stumbled backward, tripped, and landed hard on the ground. Poor Deeter—there went his peanut butter granola bars. But it was worth the sacrifice. Because by the time the clown rolled over and sat up, midnight had arrived.

  With a quick flash, the Artisans’ Carnival vanished. The clown vanished right along with it, leaving me alone in the empty field. Just like I’d planned. Only one problem, though. I still had no answers. And no chance to get any, either.

  “Who are you?” I cried at the darkness.

  Silence.

  I plodded down the path to the Viking ship, where Sweet Pea and Deeter were waiting for me. They both rushed to help me climb on board.

  “Are you all right?” Sweet Pea asked. “What happened? Is he gone?”

  “Man, what’d you do with my backpack!” Deeter said.

  I told them what had happened, how I failed to learn the clown’s identity. They said everything would be all right, but that was just to make me feel better. It didn’t work. With the clown gone and the Magic Eight Ball lost, we’d never know any answers. And I told them that, too.

  “Well, we have one answer at least,” Sweet Pea said. “The Choir Boys’ Collector, the Maestro. He must be the rogue Collector.”

  “The Maestro doesn’t know anything,” Staccato said, his voice muted in the night.

  We jumped and spun around since none of us had heard him board. He stood at the front of the ship, near the dragon’s head. Who knew how long he’d been there, listening? Sweet Pea clicked on her flashlight, but we didn’t see anyone else with him. Staccato was alone.

  “And the Maestro didn’t send us to find the Magic Eight Ball,” he continued, walking closer. “He thinks we’re out looking for the Wooden Tennis Racket.”

  Was this another Choir Boy trick? Hard to know.

  “So who did send you, then?” Sweet Pea asked.

  “I don’t know. We never saw his face or knew his name.”

  He didn’t honestly expect us to believe that, did he? But maybe he didn’t care what we believed. He turned towards me.

  “Up on the Ferris wheel. You risked your life for me. Why?”

  I shrugged. “It was the right thing to do.”

  “The right thing to do? You Ragdolls are dumber than I thought.”

  Then he shook his head and reached into his jacket pocket. Sweet Pea, Deeter and I tensed, ready for a fight. But Staccato simply took out the Magic Eight Ball and tossed it to me.

  “What’s this?” I asked.

  “What does it look like?”

  “You’re giving this to me? Just like that? What’s the catch?”

  “Let’s just say it’s the right thing to do.”

  A Choir Boy doing the right thing? Sure. Maybe on the last day of the world. But then our eyes met. And there was something about the look on his face.

  He was serious.

  “Now we’re even,” Staccato continued. “Besides, we were never really after the Magic Eight Ball anyway.”

  “So what were you after?”

  “You. Get the boy in black—that’s what our employer ordered. And some forbidden Collectible, too. A book. The Magic Eight Ball was supposed to be our reward.”

  Sweet Pea moved in the direction of our stashed backpacks, and her hand went into her pocket. Probably getting the Swan Feather ready, just in case.

  “Don’t worry, Ragdoll,” Staccato said. “We called the deal off. Allegro said we Choir Boys should never have agreed to it in the first place. Said it wasn’t worth our lives.”

  “That’s a crazy story,” Deeter said. “Why should we believe you?”

  “Believe what you want.” Staccato straightened his black tie. “I’m happy to wash my hands of it. I don’t know what trouble you Ragdolls have gotten yourselves into. But whatever it is, it’s big. Like, Artisan big. And it’s dangerous.”

  “What do you mean, Artisan big?” I asked.

  “Whoever hired us told us exactly where to find the Artisans’ Carnival. And the only ones who know that kind of information are the Artisans themselves.”

  “But why would an Artisan get mixed up in this?” Sweet Pea asked.

  Staccato shrugged. “Like I said, whatever trouble you’ve gotten yourselves into, it’s big.”

  “Do you think it could be the Professor?” I asked.

  “The Professor?” Staccato looked thoughtful. “The word on the street is, he hasn’t been seen in a while. Not since the library fire. What makes you think it’s him?”

  “It was his student who started that fire,” I said.

  “The Professor doesn’t have a student. Hasn’t in a long time.” Staccato shook his head. “Besides, I heard you started that fire.”

  “I didn’t. It was the Professor’s student.”

  Staccato tilted his head and kind of squinted at me.

  “Whatever,” he said at last. “It’s none of my business.”

  Great. If I couldn’t even convince a Choir Boy that I was innocent, how was I going to convince a bunch of Artisans? Like the Librarian? Or the Detective?

  “Look, you said the Professor’s missing, but we might know where he is,” I said. “He sent us a note inviting us to his private study, along with the Gold Doorknob.”

  “He sent you the Gold Doorknob?” Staccato’s eyebrows lifted. “Impressive.”

  “It would be if we knew how to use it.”

  “Can I see it?”

  By the looks on Deeter’s and Sweet Pea’s faces, I could tell they thought I’d said too much already. But we needed answers. So I unzipped my backpack and showed Staccato the doorknob. He stared at it for a long time.

  “The Professor doesn’t give that Collectible out to just anyone, you know,” he said at last.

  “We thought the invitation to his study might be a trap. We have to know if we can trust him. Or if he’s behind all this, we have to know that too.”

  “I’ve never heard of the Professor playing crooked, but anything is possible.”

  “So I’ve been told.”

  No help there. Not sure why I thought Staccato could give us some answers. He’d probably go and stab us in the back later. I sighed.

  “You don’t know how to use it?” he asked.

  “What?”

  “The Gold Doorknob. You don’t know how to make it work?”

  I looked up at his face. “No. Do you?”

  “Well, it didn’t come with a door, right?”

  “No. Only the doorknob.”

  “Have you ever considered that maybe it doesn’t need one?”

  What kind of sense was that? How could a doorknob not need a door?

  Staccato buttoned his coat. “It’s been lovely chatting with you Ragdolls, but time’s up. Allegro says we’re going to lay low for a while. Keep our heads down till all this blows over. If you’re smart, you’ll do the same.”

  With that, Staccato climbed over the ship’s side onto the beach and disappeared into the night.

  “What do you think?” I asked Sweet Pea. “Can we trust him?”

  Deeter snorted. “Man, you can never trust a Choir Boy.”

  “There’s one thing we can trust,” Sweet Pea said. “The Maestro’s not involved.”

  “How can you possibly know that?” I asked.

  “Sorry. I forget you’re still kind of new. Look, there’s a saying we Finders have—as loyal as a Choir Boy. Their loyalty to the Maestro is legendary. If he had given them an order, they would have done it. No questions asked. They had plenty of chances to get the book, or us. But they didn’t. Which means the Maestro has nothing to do with it.”

  “Why be so loyal to the Maestro?” I asked. “Why
be so loyal to someone who’s kidnapped them?”

  “Because he didn’t kidnap them. Not every Collector works like the Ragman does. The Maestro gets his Finders from the streets.”

  “Wait, you mean Staccato’s an ex-street kid?”

  “And an orphan, too. All of them are. No home. No food. No family. Nothing to lose. The Maestro gives them a place to live, good food, nice clothes, even a kind of family, I guess.”

  “You mean he gives them something to lose.”

  “I guess you could look at it that way. Maybe it’s loyalty from fear. Maybe it’s loyalty from gratitude. Maybe both. But whatever it is, they don’t go against his wishes. Ever.”

  “Man, why are we wasting time talking about the Choir Boys?” Deeter asked. “We got the Magic Eight Ball. Let’s use it!”

  Deeter was right. Time to get some answers.

  “Magic Eight Ball?” I cleared my throat. “Who is the rogue Collector?”

  I shook it, then flipped it over and waited for the answer to appear in the little round window on the bottom of the ball.

  Better ask again, the words said. So I did.

  Answer hazy. Cannot predict now.

  Seriously? I tried a few more times, but the Magic Eight Ball wouldn’t give a straight answer.

  “Try a different question,” Sweet Pea said.

  “Um, okay. Is the Professor involved in the plot to get the Bronze Crown?”

  Better not tell you now.

  Over and over, it was like that. The Magic Eight Ball wouldn’t tell us a thing.

  “Well, are we going to win? Are we going to save the world?” I asked.

  Future uncertain—ask again later.

  We’d come all this way, gone to all this trouble, risked our lives—for this? A piece of magical junk that didn’t even work?

  Sweet Pea laid her hand on my arm. “It’s pretty late. Maybe we’ll have better luck in the morning.”

  We set a watch between the three of us—just in case—and went to bed. During my watch, I tried my luck with the Magic Eight Ball again. This time, I asked about the Ragman. How could I defeat him?